


Don’t Let Us Say Goodbye

by awomannotagirl



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: F/F, First Time, Preadolescent Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awomannotagirl/pseuds/awomannotagirl
Summary: “And you are?”“George.”“Which is short for ...?”“That’s it,” the woman said, a soft smirk never leaving her face. “George. It’s on my birth certificate and everything. Nobody ever told me why, exactly.” Her eyebrow flicked up, so fast that the suggestion of arch exasperation was almost missable. “Now my dad thinks he’s to blame for how I turned out.”“What?”George turned her head so that she was looking right at Trixie, her amused insouciance on full display. “Queer,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette.———In which our favorite tomboys from our favorite squeaky-clean girl detective books find each other in a lesbian bar in the West Village.





	Don’t Let Us Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Raise your hand: Did you grow up on Nancy Drew and her tomboy friend George Fayne, and tomboy Trixie Belden and her girlier friend Honey Wheeler? And did you think back on those books when you got older and wonder, Weren’t they a little … ?
> 
> The Nancy Drew series debuted in 1930, the Trixie Belden books in 1948. For the purposes of what should have been, let’s say we’re in the late 1950s, and through the magic of rebooting, George is just a few years older than Trixie.
> 
> The discography: “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Don Gibson; “All I Have to Do Is Dream,” the Everly Brothers; “To Be Loved,” Jackie Wilson; “You Send Me,” Sam Cooke; “I’m Sorry I Made You Cry,” Connie Francis (from which comes the title). 
> 
> For my sister (weird though that may be, considering), who passed all her books down to me.

The bar looked utterly innocuous. The building was run down, the sign undersized and almost missable—but Trixie supposed that was intentional. The only unusual thing about it, and in this neighborhood it wasn’t even that unusual, was that the street level had no windows, just a dingily painted blank brick wall.

She’d been here twice before. The first time, she’d walked right on by, barely even able to lift her head enough to confirm that it was the right place. On the second try, she’d walked by, turned at the end of the block, walked by again more slowly, walked all the way around the block, hesitated in front, and finally ducked quickly to the subway.

She wasn’t going home again without knowing what it was like to be inside. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It was dark inside—dark enough so that, after the glow of the early-evening summer sun, she could see almost nothing. A few indistinct shapes, some lazy movement. 

“You got ID?” The voice was at her elbow, and she started. A woman in a short-sleeved work shirt and heavy pants perched on a stool next to the door. Her voice, and her face when Trixie made herself look up at it, was flat and emotionless.

“Yes, yes,” Trixie said, digging in her canvas purse. She fumbled nervously with her wallet, almost dropping it and batting it from hand to hand.

“Slow down, soldier,” the woman said, something like amusement creeping into her voice.

“Right,” Trixie said, getting her wallet under control and opening it to show her driver’s license. The woman flipped open a silver lighter and looked at the card. “Twenty-three,” she said, even more obviously amused. “Well. _Legally_ you’re old enough.” She motioned for Trixie to walk past, and Trixie gave her a wavering smile as she did. She was uncertain whether she ought to be embarrassed or terrified but inclined, on the whole, toward terrified. She took a few steps in and then stood, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

The place was mostly empty. It was barely after seven on a Friday night, too early for the evening crush, which was how Trixie had planned it. She was nervous enough just walking in the door; she didn’t want to face dozens of strangers.

There were a few tables spaced around three sides of the room and a tall wooden bar running the length of the space on the final wall. Trixie desperately wanted to sit at a table and melt into the dimness, but there was no one at any of the tables. There appeared to be a single employee, stationed behind the bar, so Trixie walked over, her steps slow and heavy.

“What’ll you have?” Trixie was surprised that the lone bartender was a man. Or appeared to be, anyway—salt and pepper crewcut and a white t-shirt. 

Trixie glanced over at the taps as she hoisted herself onto the stool. This, at least, was familiar. “A Michelob,” she said. Her voice was strange to herself.

The beer was cold, and she concentrated for a moment on the taste. It made her think, incongruously and unfortunately, of her father and brothers; of having her first beer in their company in the kitchen of her childhood house. 

She could just sit here. She could drink her beer, drop some money on the bar, and leave. There was nothing wrong with that. She would have had a beer after work, in a bar, like anyone did. Except that wasn’t what she wanted, that wasn’t what she’d come here for. She’d come to talk to people, to _women_ , to see ... She couldn’t fully finish the thought; she felt her mind skitter away. But damn it, she’d been threatened with knives and guns; she’d broken men twice her age with nothing but words and wild speculation. She would do this.

Down the bar to her left sat three women, obviously together; to her right there was a single figure. She considered quickly. The women down the bar were their own unit and, she judged, older than she by a generation. It would be awkward to interrupt them. So she turned the other way, to the solitary woman, and said, “Hello.”

The woman turned her head and looked at Trixie, neither friendly nor unfriendly, just speculative. She was older than Trixie, but not by much, and attractive: short dark hair, dark eyes, even features. Her white blouse glowed in the shadows of the bar. “Hello yourself,” she said. She turned her body toward Trixie, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning her temple onto the heel of her hand. Her cigarette swayed between her fingertips and sent smoke tendrils around her head. “Who are you?” The question could have been flirtatious or hostile, but it was neither; it was merely a request for information.

“I’m ...” Trixie momentarily struggled with how to answer, because her first impulse was, “I’m nobody.” She spun a moment before landing on, “Trixie. My name is Trixie.” 

The dark-haired girl raised her eyebrows. “Really? I didn’t think that anyone was actually named Trixie.”

“I am,” Trixie returned, managing not to snap. 

“What’s it short for?”

“Beatrix.”

“Ah,” and the fine dark brows went up again. “That’s a reasonable excuse. And a much better name.”

Trixie should have been offended but it was said with such good humor that she couldn’t be. “And you are?”

“George.”

“Which is short for ...?” Trixie was astonished at her ability to keep speaking.

“That’s it,” the woman said, a soft smirk never leaving her face. “George. It’s on my birth certificate and everything. Nobody ever told me why, exactly.” Her eyebrow flicked up, so fast that the suggestion of arch exasperation was almost missable. “Now my dad thinks he’s to blame for how I turned out.”

“What?” Trixie felt somewhat left behind, George’s blasé disclosures popping past her so fast she couldn’t process them.

George turned her head so that she was looking right at Trixie, her amused insouciance on full display. “Queer,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette.

Trixie flinched from the word, which seemed to slap her out of nowhere. She tried to backtrack to comprehend this, and finally understood that George had assumed her confusion was over what “turned out” had meant. “No, I,” she stumbled, “I mean, I’m surprised that your dad—that you told your dad.”

“Ah,” George nodded. “I didn’t.”

Trixie cocked her head, detective instinct kicking in unasked-for. There had to be a story here.

George went on after a moment, “I told my best friend”—the last two words had an emphasis that was more pain than anger—“that I was in love with her. She was utterly befuddled, for which I can hardly blame her, and she told her father, who told my father, who sought _appropriate treatment_ for me.” These last words had more bite, and her smile was definitely bitter now. “I was pretty close to electroshock therapy, but Nancy found out and talked him out of it.” She examined the remains of her cigarette as if it were fascinating. “She’s always been kind of a crusader. When she gets hold of something, she doesn’t stop till she takes it apart.”

Trixie said, after a moment too long, “She sounds worth being in love with.” She winced internally at how sappy that must have sounded, but she saw George’s mouth twist up.

“She was,” George agreed, with a kind of finality. She shook another cigarette out of the pack on the bar with a practiced flip of her left hand and lit it from the stub in her right.

Trixie was still curious—why _was_? Were they no longer friends? Was George simply no longer in love with her?—but she sensed George was done talking about the mystery best friend. Impulsively, she volunteered, “I never told mine.”

George looked over. “Your dad?”

Trixie shrugged. “Him too. But I meant, my best friend. I never told her I was in love with her.” _Am_ , she thought, chastising her lack of honesty.

George nodded slowly. “Can’t say I recommend it,” she said.

“She’s marrying my brother,” Trixie went on, unable to stop herself. George looked at her incredulously, and Trixie had to laugh. “She wants me to marry _her_ brother. She thinks it would be—” Trixie spread her hands helplessly, incapable of explaining.

“I’m sure it would be,” George said dryly. 

 

They drank some more. Trixie began to feel pleasantly woolly, and her heart felt like it was getting bigger than the chest that contained it. She couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad sensation.

Somebody was playing song after song of lost love on the jukebox. “ ‘I’ve made up my mind, to live in memories of the lonesome times,’ ” Trixie sang softly along. 

George abruptly stood up. Trixie turned around on her stool to follow George’s movement, startled, and George held out a hand to her.

“Come on,” George said, a little impatiently. “When you start singing along with the moony unrequited-love songs on the jukebox, it’s time to dance with someone else.”

Trixie stood, shakily, and took George’s hand. It was warm and just a little damp from the sweat on her bourbon glass.

George pulled her back another couple of steps, into the unlit and deserted dance floor, and then stepped in close, her hands on Trixie’s hips. Trixie didn’t completely know what to do with her own hands and found them resting on George’s shoulders. 

They swayed together, more or less to the tempo of the music. Trixie had never done this before—never held and been held by another woman who _knew_. She’d hugged Honey, sure, and some of her other friends, but it had never been with the open acknowledgment, or any acknowledgment, that she had feelings for girls. And never, of course never, had she touched another woman knowing that she too felt—thought—might—

“Relax, Beatrix,” George murmured, and she was just the right height to put her lips at Trixie’s ear. 

Trixie took and then let out a deep breath, and she let the tension out of her shoulders so that she was resting against George’s body, her forehead nestled into George’s neck. She smelled like cigarettes and a faint spicy perfume and a living body. Trixie opened her eyes, realizing that they had drifted shut, and found herself looking down the front of George’s carelessly unbuttoned white shirt. It took a moment to process that what she was seeing was a bra, and in the bra were George’s breasts.

_Jiminy crickets breasts_

George turned her head in concern at Trixie’s sharp inhalation, and then realized what Trixie’s panic was about, and chuckled. “They’re pretty nice, aren’t they,” she said.

Trixie snapped her head up to look out over George’s shoulder, her face burning. 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” George said, contrition clear even in her low tone. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s okay.”

Trixie wasn’t going to be able to speak without sobbing, so she clenched her jaw and said nothing.

George hesitated for a moment, then pulled her even closer. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I just didn’t think—You’ve never been with a woman, have you?”

Trixie gave a small shake of her head.

“God, and you had to run into me for your first dance,” George muttered. Trixie heard and felt a long, slow inhale, and then George continued, “I actually know exactly how big this feels. And how scary. I would never intentionally make light of that, okay? Or of you.” She moved her head back a little and, with a finger on Trixie’s chin, turned her head so that they were looking at one another again. They stood like that for a long moment, searching each other.

 _She’s going to kiss me. Is she going to kiss me? Do I want her to kiss me?_ Trixie’s whole body trembled as if she were going to fly apart.

Then George dropped her hand, smiled her half-smile, and said, “Let’s start this over from the beginning, shall we?” She took a step back so that they were close, but not touching, and she said, making her face mock-serious, “I’m George Fayne. How do you do?” She held out her hand.

Trixie took it, grinning despite herself, and said, “Trixie Belden.” At George’s lifted eyebrow, she corrected herself: “Beatrix Belden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” George said. “What brings you to this sophisticated spot?”

Trixie didn’t banter. “I’m looking for women,” she said. “Women like me.”

George looked directly into her eyes and said, matching her sincerity, “Beatrix, I doubt very much there are any other women like you.” 

The song faded out, and a new song began. The Everly Brothers, dreaming. The corners of George’s mouth quirked. “Would you care to dance with me, Miss Belden?”

“I would love to, Miss Fayne.” Trixie moved back into George’s arms, and this time, it felt safe.

They held each other, moving only gently, through that tune and the next, when Jackie Wilson told them how it felt to be loved, and through Sam Cooke being sent, and then Connie Francis came on with “I’m sorry, dear ...” and George sang along, her breath tickling Trixie’s ear: “ ‘So sorry, dear, I’m sorry I made you cry ...’ ”

“I didn’t cry,” Trixie said.

“Shush, you,” George said. “Don’t be so literal.” She picked the song back up. “ ‘One little word, one little smile, one little kiss ...’ ” And George’s cheek was sliding across Trixie’s, her mouth onto Trixie’s mouth, and she was kissing her. They were kissing each other. Tentative and chaste, at first, just lips on lips, but when George lifted away Trixie chased her, closing the minute distance between them with eagerness she hadn’t known she was capable of. 

The kiss changed. The sensations transmuted slowly from sensation, the new feeling of soft lips on hers, to exploration; George’s mouth moved against Trixie’s, at first just in wondering discovery, then more urgently, taking Trixie’s lips between her own and then tonguing and teasing them apart. The shock of George’s open mouth on hers—warm and wet, and active, tongue and lips and teeth all claiming her—made her gasp, and also made her respond with the same kind of fire. They kissed and kissed, Trixie’s mind racing to process what was happening and keep up. 

Finally George drew back, putting her fingertips to Trixie’s lips to still her objection. “Beatrix,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath. “Beatrix.” She smiled and said it again, as if she just liked the sound: “Beatrix.”

“Still here,” Trixie said, indistinct against George’s fingers, and gave them a tiny kiss.

George put her forehead against Trixie’s. She trailed her fingers from Trixie’s mouth to her cheek and stroked her softly there with the backs of her knuckles. “Will you—” She broke off, pulling her head back just enough to look into Trixie’s eyes. “Do you want to go to my apartment? It doesn’t have to be any more than this,” she added hastily. “I’d just like to be a little more ... private.”

Now that George had called her attention to it, Trixie did feel rather exposed, having her first real kiss in the middle of a bar. She glanced around; it was still very dim, and it wasn’t crowded by any stretch, but there were a lot more people here than there had been when she came in. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Let’s go.”

 

George lived off Seventh Avenue—pretty far off Seventh Avenue, Trixie noted nervously—on Charles. They were almost to Hudson when George nodded up at a brick townhouse: “I’m in here.”

The hall was clean and pleasant, brightly lit. George paused at the mailboxes and opened two of them, pulling out envelopes and scowling at them. “Do you have two apartments?” Trixie said, joking but also a bit confused.

“One’s my business,” George said, half distracted. 

Trixie was impressed. George wasn’t that much older than she was, and she had her own business: that was something. “What do you do?”

George looked up and seemed to be a bit discombobulated by the question. “I’m—uh—I’m a lawyer, by profession,” she said, “but what I do is ... I own things, I guess.”

Trixie was doubly impressed. She had never met a woman who was a lawyer. “What kind of things?”

“Buildings,” George answered. “I got an inheritance when my grandmother died, and I used it to buy buildings. This one, for instance. A couple of commercial buildings to the west. Another townhouse down on King Street.”

“Wow,” Trixie gasped.

George shrugged impatiently. “It’s a terrible time to be a landlord,” she said. “People are moving out of the city. A lot of manufacturing is leaving.” She started up the stairs, glancing back to be sure Trixie was following.

Trixie’s brow creased. “Why are you doing it, then?”

“Real estate is cheap right now,” George said, and then, confidently, “But it won’t stay that way. This is New York. It’s the greatest city in the world. Someday the buildings I bought for a few thousand bucks are going to be worth a million.”

Trixie wasn’t at all sure of that, but she didn’t comment and followed George up the stairs. She looked around as she ascended, noticing the care that this house had received: the walls freshly painted, the carpet industrial but relatively new and clean, the banister steady under her hand (unlike the rickety wooden contraption in her own building).

“And,” George went on after a moment, continuing onto the second flight of stairs, “I couldn’t get a legal job after I graduated. The three hundred and fifty men who graduated below me in my law school class don’t seem to have had a problem getting hired, but I’m a girl, therefore I am de facto unqualified. I have an independent practice, and I’m on retainer with a lawyer in Connecticut for when he needs work done by someone who’s admitted in New York, but it’s not exactly enough.”

Trixie nodded, a little winded by the ascent. George had trotted up the stairs as if she were simply marching down a sidewalk; Trixie was stung by being outdone by a city girl, and a smoker at that. When she got her breath back, she said, “That’s awful. I wish I was surprised.”

George turned back from unlocking the door at the top of the stairs to look at her with that wry curl of her mouth that Trixie was beginning to get to know. “I take it you’ve had some experience with the disadvantages of being female.”

“I can’t get a license as a private investigator,” Trixie said bitterly. “Summa cum laude in criminal justice, and I can’t get sponsored for a license because I’m a _girl_.”

“Private investigator, huh?” George said, her gaze sharpening. “I might have need of one of those, license or no license.”

“Keep me around,” Trixie answered, smiling. “I’m pretty good.”

George’s look changed again, transmuting into something happy and hungry. “I’m sure you are,” she said, and pulled Trixie to her with one hand, kissing her with a mouth full of heat.

Trixie kissed her back with just as much desire, beginning to relax into the play of lips and tongue, thinking less and less and experiencing more and more.

George broke the kiss and said, finally breathless, “Let’s get inside.”

The apartment was dark, but in the light slicing in from the hall Trixie got an impression of open space and neatness. That sense was only reinforced when George pushed the door shut behind them and drew Trixie on into the dark. They moved forward into empty space, and before Trixie could evaluate the surroundings any further they were kissing again.

Trixie had never kissed or been kissed like this—open, exploratory, with need and curiosity and intensity. George’s mouth fit hers as if they had been born to kiss each other; she half felt as if they were melting together even as their tongues searched and learned each other. 

They finally had to stop, panting, and both laughed at being out of breath. “I’d rather kiss you than breathe,” Trixie said, following her words with another kiss.

George put her mouth on Trixie’s neck and worked her way down with gentle teeth and tongue to the junction of neck and shoulder, her hand on the other side of Trixie’s throat, thumb stroking her skin. She breathed deeply in the crook of Trixie’s neck and said in a low, growling voice, “I know I said we didn’t have to do anything more than this, and we don’t, you don’t, but _God_ I want to make love to you.” 

The response Trixie’s body gave overwhelmed her so much that she couldn’t speak for a moment. She felt a powerful throb low in her belly—lower than her belly. She’d never felt anything quite like it before, but she immediately wanted more, deeper, now. She finally whispered, “I think you should do what you want.”

George’s lips, which she was dragging in lazy circles over as much of Trixie’s shoulder and collarbone as she could reach through the neck of her shirt, paused, and Trixie felt her breath on the skin that she had left damp. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I need you to be sure.”

Trixie nodded, feeling her head move against George’s, before she said, “I’m sure.” She was pleased with how steady she sounded. 

“Come,” George said, her voice strong and pitched low. She stepped away into the darkness, and Trixie took a tentative step to follow. Before she got more than a few feet, a light clicked on and the room sprang into being.

It was basically one open space, with white walls and worn wooden floors; she could tell in her peripheral vision that there was a table a few paces behind her and a counter that divided the rest of the room from the kitchen stove and fridge, but she couldn’t concentrate on that. In front of her, George was standing at the side of a bed, looking back at her, her hand still hovering over the little bedside lamp. She looked rumpled and dazed and she was intensely focused on Trixie.

She held out her hand, and Trixie moved forward to take it. George kissed her again, gently, even tentatively, but Trixie pressed into her, taking an extra step forward to bring their bodies together: thigh, hip, belly, breast in contact.

Trixie felt George smile, and then her mouth became firmer and more demanding on Trixie’s. Another few moments, their mouths increasingly urgent, and Trixie brought her hands up from George’s waist and unbuttoned the first button of the white blouse with trembling fingers.

George groaned and said indistinctly against Trixie’s lips, “Do you—are you—?”

Trixie said, “I’m sure,” and opened the next button. 

By the time Trixie had reached the last button, pulling the tails of the blouse out of the severe skirt, George had unbuckled Trixie’s belt and was tugging her light sweater up past her ribs. Trixie broke away from George’s lips long enough to raise her arms and let George pull the sweater off entirely (not without a moment of anxiety; did her armpits reek? would George be disgusted? But the moment passed along with the sweater, and everything was all right). 

George ran her fingers along the straps of Trixie’s bra. “Can I take this off?” she murmured. 

Trixie nodded but said, “This first,” pushing George’s shirt back and off. It dropped to the floor and then George was fumbling with the hooks in the center of Trixie’s back, the straps falling off her shoulders as the rear closure parted. There was just a moment when everything seemed to stop, George and Trixie both looking at the white cups twisting as the tension was released, and then the bra slid down their bodies to their feet.

Trixie had never been so exposed to another person. She wondered distantly why she wasn’t embarrassed, but she wasn’t; she felt ... free. She felt proud of the awe on George’s face. She felt as if a shell, a clumsy, uncomfortable shell, had fallen away from her along with the white bra.

George looked up into her eyes then and kept her eyes on Trixie’s, while she drew her hands slowly, slowly, around her body to touch her breasts. 

It was a soft and undemanding touch, just the tips of George’s fingers over the sides of her breasts, but Trixie inhaled suddenly and dug her fingers into George’s hips, shocked by the electricity of it. She was momentarily afraid that George would think she was upset, and stop, but instead George smiled, crooked and knowing, and brought her thumbs up to trace Trixie’s nipples. And _that_ —if the feeling of fingers on the swell of her breasts had been an electric buzz, this was a lightning bolt. She felt it all through her body, down her spine, between her legs.

She made a sound, a choked moan, and George circled her nipples again, firmer and faster. Then she brought her thumbs up to her mouth and, eyes still locked onto Trixie’s, licked them. When the pressure and friction returned to Trixie’s aureolas, it was slick and wet and even more amazing than it had been before.

At some point Trixie let her eyes close to the point where all she could see was the golden glow of the lamp and the indistinct rosiness of George’s body. She made a pleading whine with every breath and she thought hazily that she ought to be more dignified, but she couldn’t.

She felt George’s thumb lift from her left nipple, the hand shifting to cup the breast and hold its weight, but before her head could clear even a little George shifted in front of her, and she felt something wet and warm envelop her stiff flesh and it could only be— She opened her eyes and yes, George had a nipple in her mouth, pressing it and playing with it with her tongue, scraping delicately with her teeth, sucking …

Trixie staggered a little, suddenly unable to keep herself upright on her trembling legs. George looked up from where she was busy at Trixie’s breast and laughed: “Too much?”

Trixie just looked back at her dumbly, panting, unable to manage her body but unwilling to make George stop.

George straightened up and guided Trixie fluidly down onto the bed. Trixie barely had time to register the cool sensation of the air on her wet nipple before George was back on it, on top of her now, holding herself above Trixie with her strong arms, and rougher, more urgent. After a moment she trailed her lips over to the other side and sucked the right nipple into her mouth, and Trixie felt tongue and teeth and need and she thought she might sob. She _wanted_ so badly and she didn’t even know what.

“Oh George,” she whispered, “oh George.”

“I’ve got you,” George whispered back. Then she was unbuttoning Trixie’s jeans, unzipping, pulling the denim down over her thighs, past her knees, her panties with her jeans, and she heard them plop onto the floor and she was naked. Completely naked, and George knelt over her, wearing only her skirt rucked up halfway to her hips, staring at her with such intensity that there was nothing else in the world.

“Take this off,” Trixie said, pulling at the bunched-up fabric of the skirt. 

George nodded. Without taking her eyes from Trixie she rose to her knees and inelegantly wriggled out of the skirt and whatever had been under it. She made as if to descend back over Trixie’s body, but Trixie held up her hand to stop her.

“Stay there a moment,” she said, the awe in her voice clear. “I want to ...” She trailed off, but George’s smile told her that she knew what Trixie wanted. 

What she wanted was to look, and she did. She let herself look closely at every part of George’s body: her breasts, of course, small and beautifully shaped with tight rosy knots of nipples, but everything else too—her collarbones, the curve of her shoulders, her long hands, the soft line down the center of her body punctuated by her belly button, the inverted V of her ribs leading Trixie’s eyes to the arch of muscle at her hip, the dark triangle promising a hidden wonder.

Trixie reached out and touched the dark curling hair, stroking over the swell of pubic mound with the tips of her fingers. Expecting the hair to be coarse, she marveled at its softness and smiled at George’s sharp inhalation and the way her hips pushed forward.

Then George dropped over her again, hovering strong on one hand and knees, and brought her other hand between Trixie’s legs. She put her palm on Trixie’s mound and cupped her with her fingers, pressing gently on her outer lips, nothing more, but Trixie had to clap her own hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

“No one’s ever touched you like this?” George murmured, and Trixie shook her head wordlessly. George grinned—not the sardonic half-smile, but joyful and sweet. “Lord, I am a lucky woman.”

Trixie smiled too, unable to keep the bubble of happiness contained. “Don’t stop,” she said, and in trying not to whine she issued it as a command.

George grinned even more widely, if that was possible, and said, “Yes ma’am. I mean, no ma’am. I won’t. Won’t stop,” and she began to move her hand, pushing her fingers against Trixie, pulsing rhythmically, the feeling glorious but also not enough.

“Oh,” Trixie gasped, the whine she’d been suppressing escaping at last. “Oh George ... please ...”

George leaned down and kissed her quick and sloppy, then asked, “Please what?”

“I ... I ...” Trixie tried to come up with words. “I don’t know, George, just more.”

“Mmm,” George said as if she knew just what Trixie meant. “Like this?” And she increased the pressure of her fingers flat between Trixie’s legs.

“Oh God, that feels good,” Trixie gasped, and she found that her hips were pushing up, pushing her cunt against George’s fingers, and still it was not enough. She wanted, oh God, she wanted, something she’d never had and didn’t know but that her body understood perfectly.

George started moving her hand in slow firm circles, fingers still pressing Trixie’s lips into her clit and her messy wetness, and suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh!” with surprised delight. Her eyes flicked up to Trixie’s and she said, “I can feel how wet you are, sweetheart ... I’m not even right up against you, and I feel you ...”

Trixie begged, “Please, George, please, please, baby, please ...” She didn’t know exactly what she was begging for, but George did; she carefully parted Trixie’s outer lips with one finger, and then she slid her middle fingers into the slick, swollen heat. 

They moaned together then, George at the feel of Trixie’s cunt, Trixie at the feel of George’s touch; George slid back and forth, back and forth, spreading Trixie’s wetness over her inner lips, her clit, over her opening, again and again, firming her fingers against Trixie’s entrance and then melting away to a feather touch, until Trixie was panting and crying and saying incoherently, “Please please please ...” She had the comforter twisted in her fists on either side of her head, and she dug her heels into the mattress and opened her legs, thrust her hips up—

—and George was inside her. She could feel it, George’s fingers firm and solid inside her; she’d let Trixie push herself onto them and then she’d pressed forward, all the way in, buried so deep that Trixie could feel her knuckles hard against her pelvic bone. It was so good. She had often tried to imagine it, lying in bed at night, conjuring a faceless person she’d convinced herself was a man, entering her and touching that deep place inside; she’d never had the courage to push her own fingers in, much less anything that might actually reach that ache, but whatever she’d thought it might feel like paled next to this sensation. Full and rich and a hundred different flavors of perfect in such a tiny space.

“Breathe, baby,” George murmured, and Trixie sucked in a rough lungful of air, enough so that when George began to move inside her she could cry out. “Okay?” George asked, a touch of worry in her voice, and Trixie nodded desperately, enthusiastically. 

“Perfect,” she gasped, high and breathy. “Everything. It’s—oh, George, oh, God—” 

George hummed against her neck and settled between her legs, moving steadily and smoothly now, in and out. Trixie wrapped her arms around George’s shoulders and felt. She fell into the sensation of George’s fingers, the rhythm of pleasure—and then George was doing something with her thumb that was like a lick of fire dragging over her with every stroke.

George had pushed up with her other arm and hovered over her, looking into her face with something like awe. She was fucking her harder, faster, and Trixie could feel an aching, tender sensation growing where George’s fingertips touched deepest inside her body. It swelled and swelled, tight and liquid at the same time, and she wanted George to press against it and she also wanted her never to stop moving, and suddenly her whole body was flooded with it. She cried out; she realized that she’d spread her knees and pushed back up against George’s hand, and George was pushing into her, pushing this feeling out in waves, one after another.

Finally she collapsed back down onto the bed, reaching down to put a finger against George’s wrist and encourage her to pull out. George gave a murmur as she did: “You don’t want to let me go,” she said, smiling, and Trixie could feel how her inner muscles were still clenched onto George’s fingers. She groaned as George left her body, trailing a last wave of exquisite feeling as she did.

They lay there, holding each other, shifting against each other’s skin to find new comfort. George stroked Trixie’s hair.

“So I guess that was an orgasm,” Trixie mumbled at last.

George laughed. “Yeah. That was an orgasm,” she confirmed. They lay there for another long moment, Trixie’s heart still thudding, and then George asked delicately, “So you never … felt that … before? Not even by yourself?”

Trixie could feel the rush of heat to her cheeks even before she stammered out an answer. “Not really. Not like that. I mean, I’d felt good, and thought that maybe … But no.”

George laughed, a sweet laugh. “Generally if you think ‘maybe,’ the answer is no.”

Trixie laughed too, the sound of it buried in George’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, overcome by exhaustion and emotion and the enormity of what had just happened. She felt like there was something she should say, or do, but …

George’s voice interrupted, different than it had been: more casual, but stiffer at the same time. “Will you—Do you want to stay?”

Trixie breathed deep, taking in the clean smell of the sheets and the sweaty, spicy smell of George herself. Then she lifted herself up on one elbow, propping her head up with her hand. “Do you want me to?” she asked, as neutrally as she could. But she was looking into George’s face as she said it, and she knew that the uncertainty, the need, was as naked in her look as her body was.

George touched her face with light fingertips, and took just enough time to reply that Trixie knew she meant it. “Yes.”

Trixie felt the smile spread over her face. “Then yes,” she said. She settled back down into George’s shoulder and felt the other woman’s arm tighten around her. “Besides,” she said, already too sleepy to censor herself, “I need some time to figure out how to do that to you.”


End file.
